Sant' Ilario eBook

He had murdered his master. The first moment
in which he realised the fact was the most horrible
he remembered to have passed. He had killed the
prince and could recall nothing, or next to nothing,
that had occurred since the deed. Almost before
he knew what he was doing he had locked his door with
a double turn of the key and was pushing the furniture
against it, the table, the chairs, everything that
he could move. It seemed to him that he could
already hear upon the winding stair the clank of the
gens d’armes’ sabres as they came to get
him. He looked wildly round the room to see whether
there was anything that could lead to discovery.
The unwonted exertion, however, had restored the circulation
of his blood, and with it arose an indistinct memory
of the sense of triumph he had felt when he had last
entered the chamber. He asked himself how he
could have rejoiced over the deed, unless he had unconsciously
taken steps for his own safety. The body must
have been found long ago.

Very gradually there rose before him the vision of
the scene in the study, when he had been summoned
thither by the two servants, the dead prince stretched
on the table, the pale faces, the prefect, Donna Faustina’s
voice, a series of questions asked in a metallic,
pitiless tone. He had not been drunk, therefore,
when they had sent for him. And yet, he knew
that he had not been sober. In what state, then,
had he found himself? With a shudder, he remembered
his terror in the library, his fright at the ghost
which had turned out to be only his own coat, his visit
to his room, and the first draught he had swallowed.
From that point onwards his memory grew less and less
clear. He found that he could not remember at
all how he had come upstairs the last time.

One thing was evident, however. He had not been
arrested, since he found himself in his chamber unmolested.
Who, then, had been taken in his place? He was
amazed to find that he did not know. Surely,
at the first inquest, something must have been said
which would have led to the arrest of some one.
The law never went away empty-handed. He racked
his aching brain to bring back the incident, but it
would not be recalled—­for the excellent
reason that he really knew nothing about the matter.
It was a relief at all events to find that he had
actually been examined with the rest and had not been
suspected. Nevertheless, he had undoubtedly done
the deed, of which the mere thought made him tremble
in every joint. Or was it all a part of his drunken
dreams? No, that, at least, could not be explained
away. For a long time he moved uneasily from his
barricade at the door to the window, from which he
tried to see the street below. But his room was
in the attic, and the broad stone cornice of the palace
cut off the view effectually. At last he began
to pull the furniture away from the entrance, slowly
at first, as he merely thought of its uselessness,
then with feverish haste, as he realised that the